You'll Never Know
by inkfiction
Summary: Two Dunhams, one small, out of order elevator, and plenty of unresolved tension. Things happen as they are wont to happen. Reviews are lovely things, and are rewarded with cookies.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story was begun sometime in early September. I have a chronic issue with completion of my stories so I really tried with this one. That may have helped finish it, but it certainly wasn't a good decision because the words sound forced and strange at some places. I don't like that. For the record, I hate – absolutely HATE – the way I've written Olivia in this fic. I mean I love that character to pieces and it's sort of really depressing how I can't seem to write her like I want. And then in the middle of it all I lost my fic notebook, and along with it my notes and several parts of this story. So I'm sorry if this story seems stupid and abrupt to you, I assure you I did the best I could. Once again it is from Liv's POV, I swear I have crazy chemistry with that character or something. The song is _You'll Never Know_ by _1927_, an Australian band._

_**Whispering voices deep inside,  
>Crying to be heard<br>Telling me to take the risk of love until it hurts  
>And baby<strong>_

_**You'll never know  
>Know which choice to make<br>Take or break a hold  
>Which way to go<br>Say what you will  
>What you're willing to give<br>Give or take control  
>Will we ever know<strong>_

Maybe – maybe if you're cool and impersonal, this feeling will go away, you think as you look across the glass wall of Lincoln's office and spy Oliv – Agent Dunham (cool and impersonal, remember?). The little basketball feels rough and leathery in your hands, and Charlie is waiting for you to shoot it through the small hoop so that he can take his turn.

"You really need to hit that," he says, meaning the ball.

"Yeah," you say, your eyes fixed firmly on Agent Dunham's ass. "I need to hit that."

Some small, irritatingly persistent part of your brain registers that the cool and impersonal approach? Totally not working. It's the business suit, you tell yourself, only the business suit. It has to be the business suit, right? And your inner business geek getting turned on by the rigid formality of it?

"Liv?" says Charlie, waiting.

"Hm."

"Throw?"

You throw the ball in the general vicinity of the hoop, not looking, and – surprise, surprise! – you miss. Charlie must be giving you a weird look, you're sure – you never miss – but you don't reciprocate. Just open the door and walk out into the main hall of the Fringe division.

The business suit, you tell yourself. It's black – it usually is – with a creamy white shirt. And the way the fluorescent lights shine on her blond hair, and the hair itself – tied into a compact little bun today – and the earnest way she has of focusing her eyes, and what the fuck, Liv Dunham, you ass, snap out of it! You realize you are standing in the middle of the floor, and staring. And she's noticed.

She gives you a hard look – she's really good at those – you nod a greeting, she pretends not to notice and continues talking to your Colonel Broyles. Stubborn woman – why must she hate you so? Although, to be fair, you did kidnap her from her own universe, pretended to be her in _her_ universe, brainwashed her and made her pretend to be you in _your_ universe, and wouldn't have let her go even after all that – you shudder inwardly at the thought of Brandon's evil plan – if she hadn't managed to escape. But that had been war, this is truce. She shouldn't hate you so!

Yeah, right, fat fucking chance.

You are so deep in your thoughts that it takes you a while to register the fact that Col. Broyles is glaring at you – in fact he is frowning _and_ glaring at you. You have no idea what he has just been saying to you, and as his frown deepens so does your mortification.

"I asked if you would be so kind as to escort Agent Dunham to the conference room and go over the shapeshifter cases with her. Is that too much to ask, Dunham, or should I delegate this task to someone who is less focused on the thoughts of their grocery list, and more so on their work?"

You sigh inwardly as you give Agent Dunham a look – top to bottom. _Grocery list, indeed_.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. If you would step this way please, Agent Dunham?"

But even before the words are out of your mouth, you can see by the set of Oliv – _Agent Dunham's_ jaw that she, most probably, wasn't consulted on this minor detail of their working relationship.

"I'm sorry, sir, but would it be possible for you to assign someone else to work with me?" she says.

You try not to grind your teeth.

"No, Agent Dunham, that won't be possible," says Broyles. In fact he snaps at her. "I'm already one agent short after giving you Dunham. I cannot possibly pull anyone else out of the field. Also, as I explained to your Colonel Broyles not such a long while ago, Agent Dunham is familiar with most of the cases and uniquely qualified for working with you on them."

Oh, thank you, sir, for reminding her of that! Your annoyance with Broyles surges momentarily. Everyone knows why you're _uniquely qualified_ for this task, and the reason you have intimate knowledge of their universe. _That_ is exactly why she doesn't want to work with you!

"Sir," Olivia begins to say but stops when you widen your eyes at her.

"Yes, Agent Dunham? Is there another problem?"

She takes in a deep breath, glares at you. "No, sir," she says.

"Very well. Take care of this Dunham, I would expect a thorough report before you get off," he says to you before leaving.

"I do _not_ like this arrangement!" She says as soon as he turns his back on the two of you.

"Oh, really?" You let out a humorless chuckle. "Well, you could've fooled me."

That really seems to get to her. "I'd really prefer for you to keep a lid on your attitude if we're going to be working together like this –"

You hold up a hand to shut her up and walk off so that she has to follow.

And then the both of you end up in the conference room, going over several cases that occurred in the last three years and their connection to Walternate's shapeshifters.

[…]

It seems like you've been sitting here for hours. You're getting restless.

You unzip your jacket a little, zip it again, shuffle the clutter that has – somehow – gathered in front of you in the last hour and a half. Try to concentrate on the neat, meticulously written report in your hands, rifle through the pages to check how many are left for the hundredth time – too many, no photographs – tap your fingers on the table, leg moving restlessly underneath, and sigh. All this while stealing glances at the woman sitting not two chairs away from you.

She sits so straight and still, lips pursed, eyes fixed on the file in front of her. Prissy, so very prissy, you think. You begin to notice again the little things, the blond hair in a meticulous bun, the chunky, black reading glasses she's wearing, the little frown between arched blond brows as she concentrates. The pristine white shirt, the black suit that is still so perfect and unwrinkled – how _does_ she manage that, anyway? That one time you had to be her in her universe, and later during the John McClennon case in your own universe, those suits were a horror to keep so neat and tidy, and you kept loosing shirt and jacket buttons, and once a whole, damn jacket! You much prefer your cargo pants and leather jackets. The glasses, though. You contemplate getting a pair for yourself, they look rather interesting.

She acts like you're not there, like you're just another piece of furniture in the room, like you're not sitting an arm's length from her, going through the same cases as her – or supposed to be – all you've done so far is to sneak looks at her and fidget. It makes you a little angry that she can act all nonchalant like this. But the thing that makes you angrier is that _you_ can't. And the fact that you're ridiculously attracted to her – which your psych evaluator would have a lot to say about, if he knew – what kind of twisted person is attracted to themselves? What does that have to say about your ego? Hello – vanity and narcissism, thy name is Liv Dunham! – and that thought makes you even more angry and disgusted with yourself.

Fuck it, you're done playing nice, you tell yourself.

So you put your elbows up on the glass table surface, rest your chin on your palms and stare at her openly. And you make sure that the expression on your face is equal parts interested, curious and lecherous. Tongue in cheek, you look at her.

It doesn't take you long to notice her discomfort. Oh, she hides it well – she's very good at the 'stone-faced expressionless' thing, but it's your own face. You can see the little signs that'd be easy to miss if anyone other than you were looking. The deepened furrow between her brows, the random, slightly agitated movement of her eyes, the barely perceptible, nervous fidgeting of her hands, the hard set of her jaw. And the faint, tell-tale blush creeping across her cheeks. How adorable.

You tilt your head to one side and smirk a little. The minutes tick away.

Finally she can't take it anymore. She takes a deep breath, closes the file with a snap and throws it down on the table. In the silent conference room, the sound seems to echo like a gunshot.

"Stop it!" she says, eyes hard and angry behind the glasses.

You give her the famous Liv Dunham Half-smile. Lincoln says you _invented_ that one!

"Stop what?"

"Whatever it is that you're trying to do! It's not going to work."

"Well, that's interesting," you calmly tilt your head to a side, not taking your eyes off of her face for a second. "It seems to me it's working already."

Her eyes flash with anger, her cheeks are flushed.

"Stop _staring_ at me!"

"Does it bother you?" Leaning forward a little, you run the tip of your tongue along your upper teeth.

She seems flustered by the sudden question. "N – I'm – _no_," she says taking off her glasses.

"You look a little bothered."

"I am _not_ bothered."

You shrug, gesturing outwards with a hand. "Well, then. I don't see why I should stop."

Her mouth hangs open in disbelief for a second. "I can't believe you just – it's rude! I don't know about you people, but where I'm from, staring at someone is considered very _rude_!"

You let a slow smile spread on your face. "But it doesn't bother you, right?"

Oh, you love messing with her. This is fun, fun, _fun_.

"No," she says. "It doesn't."

"That's great, then," you lean back into the chair, making yourself comfortable, still gazing at her. "I've never been considered a polite little girl, anyway. God forbid that I spoil my reputation now!"

She lets out a half-snort like she can't believe what you're saying, opens her mouth to say something, closes it again, shakes her head. In the end she throws down the pen – she was using it to take notes – on top of the file, squares her shoulders and fixes you with a glare.

You raise an eyebrow. This is gonna be del-_icious!_

"So what is your problem anyway?" she says.

You flash her the half-smile again. "Oh, I don't have one."

"Really? Because all day today, you've been giving me these – _looks_ –"

You love the way she says it, like it's an obscene word.

"– and – and _staring_¬ at me! And not just today – ever since we've had this truce. I've noticed – don't think that I haven't!"

"You have?" You chew a corner of your lip, trying to bite back the smile but it sort of escapes, and you're gratified to see the deepening blush and growing frustration on her face.

"Look," she says. "I don't know what your deal is, but let me make it clear: it isn't going to work."

You bite your lower lip and nod. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?" She sounds surprised.

"Yeah," you say. "So, you talked to Colonel Broyles about getting Newton's file?"

She glares at you, suspicious at the sudden changing of topics. You swallow a smile.

"Yes," she finally says. "I wanted to see Newton's file, compare it with some of the unsolved cases in our archive, and see if I found any matches. I don't think it's here, though."

You snort. "Of course, it's not here. That kind of information is too … let's just say _volatile_ to keep with our general case files. Newton was–"

"–the leader, yeah, I know," she says, a hard note creeping into her voice. "So you're saying there are other, _non-general_ archives?"

"The Database Library," you nod. "You need special clearance for that, which–"

"–I don't have," she completes, lips set in a thin line.

You let a smirk spread across your lips. You like this, completing each other's sentences. Cozy. "Actually, I was going to say which _I have_, but you're right, of course. You don't have clearance."

"So I can't see those files?"

"Technically, no, you can't."

She huffs out a sigh. You smile to yourself, standing up.

"Where are you going?"

"Do you want me to stay?" You tilt your head to a side playfully.

She takes a deep breath, like she is trying to calm herself, and looks away.

You pause at the door. "So are you coming or not?"

"Where?"

"To the Database Library, you want the files, don't you?"

"You'd do that? Let me have the files?"

You shrug.

"Why?" she says, suspicious again.

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes by force. "Well, the Colonel did say to provide you every possible help I could. So get off your high horse, and come."

She glares at you, but follows.

[…]

_A/N: So this was the first part. Two more to come. And dear Reader, if you have reached this point and are reading this, the Review button is not that far off. It will hardly take a minute of your time and it would mean the world to me to know what you think of my story. So please do review._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This is the Part Deux. Thank you all for liking the first one :)_

You punch in the code and can feel her eyes on you. Great. You'll probably have to change the code now. Photographic memory and its disadvantages.

"Which floor is the Database Library?" She asks as you punch in more codes and numbers inside the elevator.

"Actually," you tell her. "We're going down, not up. We'll be there in a couple of minutes."

She nods and is quiet.

You slide past her towards the back of the elevator, brushing lightly against her even though the elevator is empty. You think you can hear her grinding her teeth, and you almost laugh out loud as you lean casually against the back of the elevator, hands resting on the metal bar behind your back as the doors close. The elevator does not move and a disembodied, machine voice comes out of the speaker.

"Authorization required for access to underground levels."

"Whoops, sorry," you say and step forward, moving right into her personal space, and reach for the control panel from behind her. You pretend you haven't heard her sudden, sharp intake of breath and press your palm on to the display screen. She goes very still as your torso presses lightly against her back, and then makes to move away from you but you rest your other hand lightly on her arm for a second to make her stop. She turns her head to look at you and you can see doubt in those eyes, mixed with suspicion and something else. You wonder what she sees in your eyes, and for the first time you notice that she's slightly taller than you. You smile at her, take in her face and then let your gaze travel down to her lips and linger there. She looks away, and your smile blooms into a grin.

The scan completes, the elevator starts moving and you step back to resume your position and fix your eyes on the back of her head. You notice how erect she's standing, shoulders tensed, fight or flight stance – like she expects you to attack any minute – and roll your eyes, but it's her hands that give her away. They are restless, tucking stray hair behind ears, smoothing down her jacket and pants discreetly, adjusting her watch. Somebody's agitated. You smirk and are about to look away when she raises a hand to brush lightly against the hair at the nape of her neck, and you see a flash of a tattoo on the back of her neck – the same one you once had, and which had to be lasered off. It's visible for an instant before her hand is down and the collar covers it again.

The next thing you do is totally involuntary, it's almost as if your hand is acting with a mind of its own, as you reach for the nape of her neck and brush the pad of your thumb lightly over that tattoo.

She jumps. Moves faster than you could have anticipated, and your arm is in her grip before you can say _Jack_. Her eyes blaze with an indefinable emotion for a few moments before the expressionless wooden mask is back in place again.

"You didn't get the tattoo removed," you say casually, making no move to free your arm, even though her grip is strong, and it hurts – bearably – but hurts all the same.

"No," she says after a short pause. "I didn't." And then she lets go of your arm with a jerk.

You resist the urge to rub it where she had been holding it. There'll be bruises, you're sure.

"Why not?"

You can see the mental struggle in her eyes – so like your own – as she contemplates whether to answer you or not.

"It's a reminder," she says finally. "I look at it every morning to remind myself."

"Remind you of what?"

"Never again." She turns her back to you. "Never," she says so softly that you can barely hear her.

"Heh," you snort. "I'd never keep a reminder of –"

Abruptly, she turns to face you again, expression hard. "I don't need you to tell me –"

The elevator shudders violently. Her hand reaches out involuntarily to grab at your shoulder. The elevator shudders again, there is a loud screech and then it stands still with a jerk that throws you into the elevator wall behind you, hard steel meeting your head with a sickening sound, with her holding onto your shoulder for support. All of a sudden it's very quiet, until –

"_Ow!_" You say. And then, "What the hell?" You both say in unison as she lets go of your shoulder.

You stand up straight from where you were slumped against the wall, your head throbbing where it met the steel, and making you a little whoozy. She is checking out the buttons now. Nothing works. The elevator stands stubbornly still.

"Something must be wrong –" you start to say, gingerly feeling over the bump on the back of your head with one hand, as you reach for the control panel of the elevator.

"I figured that out," she says sarcastically, cutting you off.

You shake your head at her tone, immediately regret it as your head throbs painfully. It makes it harder to concentrate as you stare at the inky black display screen – it's dead. The mic doesn't work when you try it and when you try to call Charlie on your comm link, all you can hear is static. What in the name of all that's holy could have happened?

"Well," you say with an easy grin, not letting your doubts show, "they'll get it fixed soon enough."

"I hope so," she says, her tone implying that it was no less than she had expected, that it was just like the elevators of your universe – breaking down at inappropriate times.

You let out a tired sigh and slump back against the wall.

[…]

Fifteen minutes later and you're still standing, leaning against the wall, getting used to the pounding ache in your head, while she paces restlessly – which you think is a feat in itself – the elevator is hardly four square feet. It's getting somewhat stuffy in the confined space and you can feel the slight dampness of sweat forming on your neck under the weight of your hair. You unzip your jacket all the way down. The sound is like a crack in the confined space, she jerks to a stop to look at you, stifling a gasp.

"Don't _do_ that!"

You raise your hands in a gesture of incredulity. "What? It's getting hot in here!"

She takes a deep breath and then starts pacing again.

You gather the weight of your hair off your neck and onto one shoulder, envying her compact bun. "What – hey, did it scare you?"

She stops in the middle of her three-step pace to give you another look. Guess she invented _those_.

"No," she says tightly and returns to her pacing.

"Stop pacing, then."

"I'm _not_ scared! And I'll pace if I want to!"

You almost smile at the slight note of petulance in her voice, and roll your eyes.

"Suit yourself. I suppose I'll just –" you lean back. "–watch."

She doesn't seem to hear you – and she looks sort of fascinating, pacing in the small space like a caged animal. Stray hair have escaped out of her bun and stick to her neck in golden clumps. She tucks some of it behind an ear. You watch as she loosens another button of her shirt, and are admiring the interesting view when your eye falls on her hands and you notice that they are trembling slightly. You tilt your head and frown. As much as you've come to know of her, she's not the type to give in to fear so easily.

"Why are you so agitated?" You suddenly ask her.

She stands still, not looking at you. "I'm not."

"You are – you're pacing, and your hands are trembling."

She turns to face you and you notice the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. She's paler, too.

"Olivia–" you begin, suddenly concerned.

She takes a deep breath – and you realize that she's been taking a lot of deep breaths.

"I'm not – agitated or scared or terrified or whatever, okay?"

You point at her with your hand and raise your eyebrows. "You don't look it."

"I'm not – I just …" she trails off, frowning and then her eyes widen.

"What –?" You're really worried now.

"Is this elevator airtight?"

You grimace, wondering where that was going, and nod. "I suppose. There are vents, though. And this is relevant because –?"

"The vents!" And now there's panic in her voice. "The vents are not working!"

And suddenly you understand her panic. And you also understand why it is getting so hot and why the air inside is getting heavier and more humid by the minute. But what worries you more is her reaction. She staggered a step back and is now trying to overcome a panic attack of sorts, her breathing shallow, fast. You lurch forward.

"Olivia. Olivia!" You hold her firmly by the shoulders and shake her a little.

But she has her eyes closed, shaking her head and mumbling something under her breath like a mantra. And when you can make it out it's –

"No. No, no, no! Not again! Not going to be trapped here again! No, no, _no!_"

You shake her again, "Olivia! You need to snap out of this!"

And she lets out a sound that is awfully like a choked half-sob.

"You're not gonna be trapped her," you tell her. "They'll get us out soon."

But your words sound empty even to you. God only knows what is wrong, and if, back at the headquarters, they know about it at all or not, and whether they're doing anything to get them out. And even if they are, how long will it take? What if – but you shove the what ifs away and concentrate on her for now.

"Not again!" she whispers, like she hasn't even heard you. "Never! _Never again!_"

"Olivia Dunham!" You almost slap her, but in the end opt for cupping her face and making her look at you. "This is no time for having hysterical attacks!"

"We're going to be stuck here, with no air! For God knows how long – I can't – I don't want to be –"

"Listen to me! We are _not_ going to be stuck here, okay?"

She opens her mouth to disagree but you shut her up, covering her lips with the thumb of your hand that was cupping her face. You point the forefinger of the other hand at her.

"No," you tell her. "Look at me, listen to me! We're not gonna be stuck here, we'll get out. We'll figure something out, alright? Alright?"

She looks at you, and after a long, long time she nods. You let out a breath that you never knew was stuck somewhere in your chest.

"Good," you tell her. "Okay. Deep breaths. Calm down."

Minutes pass, with you still cupping her face, tracing abstract patterns on her cheek with your thumb absently, and she with her eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths. You're thinking how unreal it seems when suddenly she opens her eyes and says, "The door!"

"What about it?"

"If we use enough force – we can open it a bit, to let in some air."

"I don't think we can open a steel door of an airtight elevator – it's not –" you were going to say _possible_ but it sticks in your throat because she's already flung off your hand and is at the door of the elevator, trying to find purchase in the barely there crack where the two halves meet – and at that moment it kind of hits you just how desperate she really is, and just how traumatic the whole kidnapped and trapped in the other universe experience must have been for her to have such powerful impact even after so many months.

Your heart goes out to her, it's too much baggage for anyone to carry.

"Here," you say softly, pushing her a little to one side. "Let me help."

It takes a long time and a lot of effort but eventually you make some headway. First the crack opens a little more, giving you more space to dig your fingernails in, then there's a slit – the barest of slits, few tiny millimeters – and then a chink, perhaps an inch and a half wide, and with it comes in a breath of cold, stale-smelling air.

"Gah," she pants. "Just a little more."

You push hard, along with her; it gets a little easier once it is wide enough for the two of you to grab it properly with your hands. You manage to open it to half a foot, sweat dripping down both your foreheads with the effort.

"Crap!" She says suddenly.

"Wha– ?"

"We don't have anything – how are we going to keep this open? Once we let go, it's going to close again!" Her speech is punctuated by grunts of effort.

"Calm down," you tell her, voice strained – it's no easy feat, keeping that ruddy door open. "We'll figure something out."

She lets out a laugh, which is more disturbing than her panic attack earlier – you can't have her losing her mind!

"Well," she says, voice thin with effort and laden with sarcasm. "We better figure it out damn soon, or this door is going to close and we're both going to be stuck here, and die of oxygen deprivation!" Her voice rises to a shout at the end of the sentence.

You give her a worried look. "We just need something – oh!" You have an idea. "Say – can you hold the door for a little while?"

"By myself? What you got?"

"I," you tell her, "have got a leather jacket that can be rolled into a ball. You hold the door, I'll take it off, roll it and slip it between the – thing, whatever. Point is, leather is more resistant –"

"Do it!" She cuts you off.

You look at her, taken aback. You hadn't expected her to agree so fast. "Are you – sure?"

"No, but don't have much choice, do I?" She lets out another half-maniacal laugh.

"Okay," you tell her. "I'll let go real slow, alright? Ready?"

"Yup."

"Be careful – if your fingers –"

"_Just do it!_" She snaps at you.

You let the door go slowly. The two halves lurch towards each other with sickening speed – you almost let out a scream – but she manages to stop it before they're halfway through, her jaw clenched, knuckles white and straining.

"Keep it open! Keep it open!" You shout at her.

She just grunts in response.

You fumble with your jacket, an arm gets stuck in the sleeve, you curse at it – never has it taken you so long to take off a piece of clothing.

"Okay," you tell her, rolling the jacket into a ball. "I need you to widen that gap."

"I'm trying!" she grunts through clenched teeth, and strains harder. The gap widens – millimeter by millimeter, inch by inch – it's the longest half minute of your life. As soon as it is wide enough, you slip the rolled up jacket in, making sure it's jammed tightly in the space it needs to be.

"Alright – let go," you tell her.

She doesn't. You look at her. Her eyes are closed but you can see the dampness on her lashes. She's still holding on to the door, knuckles white and straining, although there's no more need of it.

"Olivia," you hold her shoulders. "Let go, it's okay. Let it go."

Tears seep down her cheeks as she lets out a breath and shakes her head.

"Hey," you say to her, putting one arm around her waist and prying her fingers off the door with the other hand. The amount of force required for that simple task makes your hand ache. You pull her away from the door, taking her with you towards the back of the elevator, step by step.

A cool, musty stream of air is filling the elevator and nothing has ever smelled so sweet or been this much welcomed. She gulps down lungfuls of it. Warm tears splash down her face and on the back of your hand. It takes a while but eventually she collects herself, the tears dry down, her breathing slows and evens out, her body stops trembling. All the while you hold her from behind, gently but firmly. She composes herself and you're about to breathe a sigh of relief when, all of a sudden, she flings away your arm and moves away from you at record speed to lean against the wall.

It is so sudden and unexpected that you look at her, totally bewildered and not a little hurt, and then it pisses you off a little.

"What the fuck?" you say.

She doesn't say anything, just looks away, cradling herself.

"No, seriously," you persist. "_What?_"

"Nothing."

"Can't bear to have any part of me near you, huh?" You know you're losing it, but your nerves are so frazzled due to all that just happened that for once you really don't give a damn what you're saying, or how. "Why do you have to be so – _prissy_ – all the time!"

"I'm not prissy," she says, voice barely louder than a whisper, but you're a little mad, you don't even notice.

"I don't have a communicable disease, you know! You won't get infected if you talk to me, or look at me, or smile at me, or touch me!"

"I know you don't–"

"You have a weird way of showing it!"

"You're being unreasonable–"

"_I_ am being unre – I wasn't the one who – I tried to help – I was being _nice_ – I'm – I'm trying–"

"I know that, you need to–"

"Need to _what?_ Tell me what I need to do so that you can consider me worthy–"

"–calm down!"

"–of your, I dunno, attention, or maybe a little respect–"

You're really on the roll, you don't even hear what she's saying. You hardly pay any attention to how quiet her tone has become until she shouts, "Stop it! Okay!"

And you're suddenly silent, looking at her, really looking, noticing how she's barely holding on, like she's trying to keep something in, trying to keep it all together. She takes a deep breath.

"I know you're trying, I know _what_ you're trying – you don't make it any easier! I'm trying here, too, okay? But, _God_, you make it so difficult – I can't – we can't–"

Your heart stops for a fraction of a second, resumes pumping with doubled force.

"Why not?" you ask her, voice much lower than before.

"I don't need to go into the reasons, you know w–" she starts to say but you cut her off.

"Is that why you hate me so much?"

"I don't – I don't hate you – why would you think that?"

"You don't–?"

"No."

And that is the trigger. It's like something clicks into place inside you and makes you move towards her. It hardly takes a few seconds, maybe less, and before she can blink, you have her pressed against the wall, holding her there with your body.

[…]

_A/N: So. I really hope you liked it. Only one part left. You know the drill, the Review button is right below and pressing it would hardly take a minute. Can't wait to know what you think :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm so, so sorry for this very late update, you guys. But RL sorta caught up with me, and then there were thunderstorms and stuff, and the internet got scrambled. Well, it's a long story so let's just say, it's here now. :)_

You don't know if it's your combat training paying off or just your skill with women or if you've managed to find a weak spot in her defense, but you have her pressed against the elevator wall. The thing that surprises you isn't that you have her pressed against the wall – it's the fact that she let you. You'd like to believe that you're better than her, stronger, but you know that isn't really the truth. You know that if she hadn't let you, the two of you wouldn't be standing like this, your body pressing hers into the elevator wall, holding her prisoner. That she hasn't thrown you off, that she's still there, trapped between you and the steel wall behind her, is a feat in itself. So you decide to concentrate on other things.

For example, how you're close enough to feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart vibrating in your own torso, see the tiny, rippling contractions in her throat as she swallows hard, the pulse point at the base of her neck, jumping with her heartbeat. Close enough to count every little freckle on her face – and the little brown mole towards the right at the edge of her lower lip – like a little smudge of chocolate. Such a feisty place for a mole to be. You can think of many interesting things that can be done to that mole, preferably by you – starting immediately with a feather-light kiss.

Right here, this close you can do a lot of things – like count every stray hair in her eyebrows that grows in the opposite direction – six, no, eight – or the gold flecks that pepper her eyes – they are a little darker than yours, you notice, her eyes. Or look for hours at the little dip at the tip of her nose, or the soft shadows cast by her eyelashes on her cheekbones. Your eyes move all over her face and then settle on her lips. And that mole. You want to nibble at it to see if it would come off.

"Let go of me," her voice is a soft, hoarse whisper.

"Yeah?" You breathe out just as softly, put a hand on her shoulder to steady yourself, anchor your body, and slide it up slowly, your touch light, teasing – fingers curling around her neck, palm on her clavicle. Your thumb softly grazes the hollow at the base of her neck. "Go on," you tell her. "Push me away, why don't you?"

She breathes out, breathes in, chest heaving with each breath. Looks at you, looks away.

You slip the other arm around her waist, pull her close, press down with your hips. "Tell me," you breathe out to her. "Tell me you don't want this, don't want me here. Tell me you don't want me."

Her eyes flick up to yours for the briefest of seconds before she looks away again. She licks her lips.

"I –" she says, bites down on her lower lip as you press harder into her. "I don't …"

She never finishes the sentence, mainly because your arm just made its way under her jacket and her shirt is thin cotton. You let out a laugh and feel a shiver run through her body. You press your hips down again, slow, deliberate.

"Go on, head-butt me," you flash her your cocky half-smile. "Clock me on the head with your gun."

She doesn't say anything for the longest moment, just looks at you.

"I don't …" Finally she breathes out. "…want …" She trails away followed by a sharp intake of breath as you grind against her, and you feel her fingers thread through the belt hoops of your cargo pants, as she pulls you into her. It's more of a reflex action, really, you know. You can feel her slumping slightly, leaning into you, as her legs grow weak.

You chuckle softly, head bent, breathing out on the hollow beneath her neck. "That's a funny way you've got, of not wanting." You let your lips brush against it softly, lightly, feel the warm jumping pulse beneath her skin. "Do all the people in your universe not want like that, Olivia Dunham?"

She lets an incomprehensible noise out of the back of her throat as your lips land on her pulse point, and you smile into her skin, worry it with your teeth, soothing the bites with your tongue. It's warm, her skin, warm, salty and something else, something entirely different. She moans softly, you can tell she's really trying not to; her fingers, threaded through your belt loops, clutch at the bottom of your shirt, make forceful little fists, half pulling it out of your pants. When you finally lift your lips off her skin, you've left several interesting red marks and she's breathing hard.

"Stop it," she says weakly, and you could've sworn, almost half-heartedly.

In reply you trace a line of butterfly soft kisses along her clavicle, feel her heartbeat thudding fast, irregular, yet in sync with your own; her breath hitches. Your hand slips to the nape of her neck, fingers sinking into the hair at the base, pulling softly, burrowing inside, until the bun gives in. Soft, blond hair spills from its bounds, framing her face, curling at the edges. You thread your fingers through it, wonder how incredibly soft it is, catch a whiff of something fruity, flowery, and breathe it in. It's the most intoxicating scent you've ever smelled.

"Oh, God, Olivia," you breathe out, and you can feel her breath catch in her throat as your fingernails dig deep, scraping her scalp, fingers yanking lightly on her hair.

Your lips trace the line of her jaw, find a point beneath her ear which makes her close her eyes and moan, and the sound is like fire on your already heightened senses. You want more, you need more, and then your hand is out of her hair and fumbling at her shirt buttons. There aren't many left to open, and by the time she opens her eyes and figures out what you're doing, you've popped open the last button and yanked half her shirt out of the waistband of pants.

"What're you–" she begins, and then gasps as your hand slides beneath her shirt, cool over her warm, bare skin, raising goose-bumps, coming to rest over the curve of her abdomen. It sort of fits there perfectly, which pleases you.

"Stop this!" she manages to get out in a strangled whisper before you run your fingertips in a demanding caress over the underside of her breast, making her shut up and trail off in an incomprehensible moaning sound. You can feel her sagging against you as her knees grow weak. Your fingers trace lines and patterns on her bare skin, her body heat warming your cold fingertips.

Before she can recover, you're undoing her belt buckle. She's shaking her head like she's trying to clear it but now you're too far gone to make yourself stop, sheer need, lust and instinct taking over all logic and reason. So before she can do anything further, you've popped the button and unzipped her fly and your fingers are sliding lower.

"No, no, no, no," words fall from her lips like a hurried prayer.

And you're almost there, but then there's a light pressure on your abdomen pushing you away, her arm is between the two of you and her hand grabs yours, stopping it from inching its way further south.

"No," she says, firmly this time.

You look at her, confused. The expression on her face, blown pupils, irregular breathing, her drumming heartbeat – all tell you clearly that she wants this just as much as you do, that you're not the only one.

"What's the matter?" you ask her, perplexed. "I know – I can tell you want this – let me…" You trail off, unable to divert your mind any more from the course of action it was bent upon, your fingers once again slipping and sliding on her bare skin, forcing their way out of her grip, on their way down to…

"No!" she says, grabbing your hand again. "No, stop!"

Your mind is so lost in a haze of longing, of having wanted this for so long, needing this so much right now that you don't even register what she's saying. You don't stop and she struggles against you.

"No! Liv, stop–"

"But you want thi–"

"Liv," she says in a softer, gentler tone. "Not like – _this_, okay? Later, when we get – later, okay? _Not_ like this."

And in the end what stills your hand most of all is the way she spoke, and the fact that for the first time since you've known each other, she's called you Liv. A happy bubble forms inside your chest, swells, floats to the surface. It's ridiculous, you know that, but you can't help it.

"Later?" you ask her.

She just nods, squeezes your hand gently before loosening her grip.

"Promise?" You don't even care that at that moment you sound like a little girl, you just want to hear her answer.

She smiles for the first time that evening. "Yes. Promise."

So you still your hands, steer them away from the course they were bent upon, and smile back, looking at her, taking her in – all of her: hair wild, spilling carelessly from their bounds, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, pupils dilated, suit jacket dangling from her shoulders, the once crisp white shirt wrinkled, unbuttoned all the way and half out of the waistband of her pants which are unzipped, open just the right, tantalizingly little amount, love bites along her neck and collar-bone – now this here's a sight you'll remember till the day you die. And you know that you have that cocky, crooked, more-smirk-than-grin smile of yours, the Liv Dunham special, on your face when you realize that _you_ are the cause of her being so _déshabillée._

You open your mouth, not sure what you're going to say when there's a beep in your ear – the comm links are working again. Relief surges through you as you raise a hand to press the button and answer the call.

"Liv?" The slightly hoarse voice of Charlie Francis brings you back to earth, making you realize you're stuck in an elevator with your alternate from another universe. It's unreal.

"Liv? Can you hear me?"

Your grin widens as you press her to the wall, molding your body to hers.

"Yes, Charlie," you say, your breath ruffling her hair lightly as you press yourself closer, nudge her cheek with the tip of your nose and watch as she closes her eyes, bites her lip and exhales.

"Are you alright?" His voice is tight with panic. "Are you hurt? Are there any inju–"

"Whoa, slow down, grandma," you interrupt him, while settling over her. "I'm fine. _We're_ fine."

"Agent Dunham is fine?"

"Oh, she's _very_ fine," you tell him, a wild urge to giggle rising inside you.

"Oh," he seems slightly taken aback by your enthusiastic reply.

"You seem disappointed," you don't even realize your voice has dropped an octave as you run your hands up her arms lightly, press your lips to into a soft point beneath her ear. She stops herself from moaning, barely, but you can feel the sound thrumming in her throat.

"Wha – no, oh, no. I'm glad you guys are okay."

"Mm-hm," you breathe out, nuzzling into her neck, smiling as she tries to push you back again.

"I really am," he sounds a little flustered now.

"Okay," you say. She opens her mouth to speak but you press a finger to her lips, shake your head, replace the finger with your thumb, drag it across her lower lip once, twice, feel her shudder.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Charlie says, concerned.

"Yes." The word is a dragged whisper, falling from your lips like a lover's long-drawn sigh, your fingernails rake lightly at her back, she shudders again and you can feel the slight ripples as the muscles of her back shift under your fingers, responding to your touch.

"Oookay," Charlie's voice is tinged with skepticism, but thankfully he chooses not to comment on your reply. "Hey, we're working to get you guys out, hang in there, okay? The elevator's main cable snapped and the emergency generator crashed. But they're working on it, it'd be fixed soon, and you'd be out in no time at all–"

"Oh, that isn't a problem," you tell him, purring against the shell of her ear, biting the earlobe softly. "You take your time. Nice and slow."

"You're being – _patient_?" he sounds awed for a moment, and then he snorts. "Aha, you're showing off in front of her, aren't you, Liv?"

"_Mayyyy_be," you've moved on to the corner of her jaw now.

He lets out a guffaw. "Alright then, hang on. We're getting you out soon."

"You do that," you say and press the button to end the call. "So – where were we?"

"Get off," she tells you, trying to sound stern but her voice wavers in the end as you continue to trace patterns on her back. "Liv, I don't want them to find me like this!"

You leer at her. "But what a shame, sweetheart! You look delectable."

She rolls her eyes and tries to push you away again. You chuckle, not moving.

"_Liv!_"

"Oh, okay. But on one condition."

"What now?"

"Kiss me."

"What!"

"Kiss me." You see the incredulous look on her face. "You know, the act of endearment involving lips, and more often than not, tongue, wherein two people lean their faces towards each other–"

"I _know_ what a kiss is!"

"Well, then, I suppose you will have no problem demonstrating–"

"I said later, okay?"

"Later it is," you say, not moving.

"So let me go now!"

"Kiss me."

"I'm telling you–"

"Kiss me."

"This is ridiculous–"

"Kiss me."

"_Liv!_"

"Kiss me."

"You're not going to budge, are you?"

"Kiss m–"

"Gah!" she lets out a scream of frustration, and then, before you can finish saying it, her hands are cupping your face and her lips are upon yours, demanding, insistent, unrelenting, and then her tongue is melting against yours, wild, sweet, all-consuming. You've forgotten basic things like breathing, and forming coherent, logical thoughts and – she's kissing you and well, _damn!_

You can't tell if that kiss lasted a few seconds or a few minutes or an eternity. The next thing you know is that she's pushed you away and you've staggered back a step, lips tingling, breath hitched, knees weak.

"That was–" your voice is a hoarse whisper as you exhale. "…enlightening."

She snorts, buttoning her shirt right to the top, smoothing it down, tucking it in.

You let out a deep, heavy breath, trying to calm your heartbeat. "Whoa."

"Two can play at this game, Dunham."

"Gosh, I hope so," you grin at her.

She shakes her head at your cheekiness, runs fingers through her hair, gathering it into a bun.

And pretty soon, the display screen blinks back into life, the gears revv up, the buttons blink and beep, and the elevator is moving again, up towards the ground floor. The doors open to reveal Charlie pacing outside. He stops when he sees you, opens his mouth to speak but ends up staring at you, giving you the weirdest look as you bend down to pick your out-of-shape jacket.

"Later," you whisper, as you stride past her.

She follows, prim and silent.

[…]

"So, Dunham," says Broyles, after listening to your report on the shapeshifters' case for the day, detailing the progress you made in some cases. "I trust that you're pleased with the results of the ongoing investigation, and the cooperation of the Other Side?"

You nod, biting your lip. "Yes, sir, she's certainly very … pleasurable."

"You mean pleasant."

You bite back a smile.

"That's exactly what I meant, sir."

[…]

_A/N: This is it. The last part. So if you've stuck with this story so far, the review button is just down below. It won't take a minute of your time but it'd mean a lot to me to know what you think. So please do review. :)_


End file.
